글사랑 모임

80% of my day is filled with you. Things you liked Have somehow become my taste, And things you disliked I avoid them too, without knowing why. I pick out what you'd welcome and what you'd reject, And carve myself closer to your shape. At a single word from you, Even though I know it means nothing, Like adding flesh to bone, I keep adding meaning. I'm getting closer to you than to myself. To explain myself, I bring up your story, And there I stand, in a world drawn by you. The remaining 20% Ultimately fails to reach you, And flows away, nameless. Today, I am left as you.

You don't need to please everyone. This is a psychology book, and it's really comforting, so I recommend it. I tend to cry easily, and my parents often told me not to cry. Reading the book, I found a part that said, 'That's emotional picky eating. Telling yourself not to cry or get angry is just avoiding negative emotions.' It was incredibly comforting.

What it means to love Cannot be conveyed with the words "I love you" Unable to put my heart into the word "love" I can't even express it Do you express love? Do you convey love? Love is not expressed through the word "love" Love is not conveyed through the word "love"

As the autumn breeze blows, the forest shakes its body in unison and begins its confession. Look at the leaves, which clung fiercely throughout the year, letting go lightly as if without any regrets, and settling onto the earth. It is not a fall, but a magnificent return. It is a wise choice to return to the roots from which they sprouted and become fertilizer for themselves. What we must learn this autumn is precisely this attitude of 'letting go'. How much do we fret to possess, and how desperately do we try not to lose, so many things? But there is nothing we can hold onto forever. Just as trees shed their leaves to reveal the clear, blue autumn sky with their whole bodies, we too can face the true richness of life only when we empty ourselves of inner attachments. Autumn is not a season for filling, but a season for emptying in the most beautiful way.

In my heart, where popularity has faded, Only crickets leap. If you read it letter by letter, The crickets write one letter at a time, And the verses soon cover the vast sky. I die, But the crickets live. You live, But I die.

The day you were about to dissolve into turquoise, becoming one with the waterfall. When the sun illuminated the lake, I thought of you, who had become a waterfall. The waterfall embraced you, crushing your entire body entrusted to the fierce currents into tiny pieces as it flowed down. +On a cliff in Plitvice, your body scattered into tiny droplets, and you poured down in jade, flowing into the lake. Blinded by that water's hue, I stumbled and fell down the stairs. Water splashed onto my face, and red droplets clung to it. I got up as if nothing happened and yawned. The tears that welled up in my eyes mixed with the clinging water droplets, leaving marks. No matter how much I rubbed or wiped with my hands, they would never disappear. The marks spread in my eyes, and the lake turned red. The water's hue that left marks in my eyes Colored the waterfall through the lake. That day, you eventually bled into crimson. +Photo: Plitvice Falls and Lake

We were too young to be adults, And loved too deeply to learn about goodbyes. To the words that said time would heal, I gradually erased you from my world. Erased your face, erased your voice, Even erased your name, no longer calling it. That's how I erased you, once a day. One day, it suddenly felt more natural without you. Pretending to be fine, But the fact that I was forgetting you, Felt like I had momentarily forgotten how to breathe. If there truly is an afterlife, I hope the place where we meet Is not a memory, but the moment of our beginning. Then, not knowing goodbye, it would hurt less. No, knowing goodbye, we could hold on longer. So the 'me' of next time, Isn't the me who forgot you, But the me who goes to find you again on DC.

A crime committed with a brush cannot be taken lightly. Many writers say the brush is mightier than the sword. Yet, quite a few of them feel wronged when told that crimes committed with a brush should receive harsher punishment than those committed with a sword. This is unjust. If the brush is truly mightier than the sword, its responsibility should also be heavier. Forgery of official documents can be considered treason committed with a brush, and therefore, I believe it should receive at least the same punishment as treason committed with swords and spears, if not greater. And I would consider it a sword's respect to the brush. Excerpt from "The Bird That Drinks Blood" by Lee Yeongdo

The world was hot, but my body was cold. I felt a chill in the humid air. All I could taste was cold and bitter. Every time the wind touched my skin, it stung. The moisture mixed with the humidity cut through my whole body. The crystallized atmosphere scraped at my wounds. Everyone around me was wearing just a t-shirt. Short skirts, shorts, even bare feet with sandals. Outfits I couldn't even imagine for myself. Even though I was shivering alone, I had nothing to cover myself with. It was useless to curl up my cold body. No one seemed to notice me. Just as my consciousness was being consumed by pain, the pouring summer rain turned into hail.

When I get tired of walking, I can just sit down and rest. Looking all around, I etched it into my memory, so I felt relieved, thinking it was enough. I thought about it, asked again, and thought about it again, but I overcame that hurdle. And seeing your smile in front of me, I smiled a lot too. But, what happened? What is this hesitation, and what is this lingering feeling? Haa I guess I was saving it up. The words I wanted to say to you, the moments I planned to see you, the pieces of promises I intended to keep, all became pointless dust, and only then did I realize. Haa It was all a lie that couldn't even be an excuse.